


I Would Rather Be Anywhere Else Than Here Today

by spuffyduds



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: 1000-5000 Words, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 04:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds





	I Would Rather Be Anywhere Else Than Here Today

"Why are bartenders always wiping glasses?" Oliver says. He is approaching pickled but not, alas, quite there yet. _Lightly_ pickled. Suspended in a vinaigrette, perhaps. "It's a redundancy. They're already clean. Why why why with the wipe wipe wipe?"

"Gives us something to do with our hands," says the barkeep. "Keeps us from strangling customers who won't shut up."

Oliver glares at him. He is aware that the glare would be more terrifying if he weren't swaying on the barstool, but cannot seem to make any corrections to his stage presence at this point in the arc of drunkenness.

"Listening to me run on is part of your raison d'etre," he says. "You are the, the psychoanalyst of the masses. You are Karl Jung in a very silly little apron. Listening is one of your _services_, part of your _job_, what you are _paid_ for. And _tipped_ for, I might add."

"Which would be more of an incentive if you weren't a shit tipper," the bartender says serenely, and keeps wiping glasses.

"I'm not--. Well. It's not like I'm getting rich directing plays, you know." Oliver says. "What is your name, anyway?"

"Neil. Which I've told you for the last six nights running. At some point in your long, long story."

"No," Oliver says, "surely not. Have I really--?"

"Love of your life," Neil says. "The beautiful, the talented, the young and juicy Geoffrey. All sorts of sonnet-y metaphors. Tragedy ensues."

"I tell the story of my life _much_ better than you do. "

"I'm _hurt_."

"Another bourbon, " Oliver says, searches for an appropriate Shakespearean epithet, comes up dry, tries for some sort of hearty Anglo-Saxon insult but can't retrieve any of those either, and settles for, "You—not-nice person, you."

"Look," Neil says. "I'm not exactly supposed to be _discouraging_ consumption. But, memory gaps? Losing your last six evenings? Not a happy signpost. More of a "This way to rehab, I'd turn back if I were you."

"_Do_ shut up."

"Right," Neil sighs, brings him another glass. "Got something you wanted to _tell_ me about?"

Oliver looks around at the almost-empty bar, finds that he's ensconced himself at the loneliest corner of it. And launches into the tale. _Again_, apparently.

*******************************************************************

Of course he'd seen Geoffrey act before inviting him to be part of the festival. Because, pre-Geoffrey, he'd really had a very tight focus on his work--on raising New Burbage into the top ranks of world festivals. And you couldn't come up with a truly stellar stable of actors by depending entirely on recommendations from their previous directors or, god forbid, their university drama professors. So he did a lot of traveling, scouting out new talent; watched many, many lesser-venue productions that ranged from astonishingly good to so execrable that they achieved a sort of hallucinatory grandeur.

The one he'd seen Geoffrey in had leaned more toward the latter. Some sort of absurdist/existentialist piffle, all "life is pain and pain is meaningless and, oh, look, in this scene someone in a _camel costume_ wanders through the kitchen for _no apparent reason_." And the young man Geoffrey was playing against was wearing striped stovepipe trousers and several scarves, the color schemes of which were arguing with one another so loudly it was difficult to hear what he was _saying_. Which may have been a good thing, because, according to the program notes, he was "essaying a Shatner-esque delivery as an ironic commentary on Canada's awareness of itself as a cultural entity." Dear lord.

Nonetheless. Even through all that static, he could tell Geoffrey was quite good. And quite pretty. Oliver was really too busy for that sort of thing right now, and had a policy of never sleeping with actors anyway--too much, _hah_, drama. But--always nice to surround oneself with pleasant scenery.

And then they had a mass of table-readings. Hadn't remotely settled on what parts were whose for the new crew, just--feeling out the new folks a bit, trying to decide where to slot them into the minor characters in the works he'd already decided on, based around his old stalwart players. They did so many bits and pieces of plays that, oddly, he couldn't remember now which Shakespeare it was. But Geoffrey was reading some minor servant--probably didn't even have a name, probably in the dramatis personae as "BOY." Just a few minutes before he'd been joking and horsing around with the other actors. (And, yes, Oliver'd noticed him, because, yes, pretty. And so young. More like colting or foaling around, really; all legs and arms and hair.)

Then his line came around, and Geoffrey became suddenly--incandescent. Delivered his nothing of a line, his really-quite-content-free line (it was something like, "What ho, my lord!"), and he was utterly _focused_ on Cyril, who was reading his master; _blazingly_ focused on what Cyril might want, with a slight tremble, like a hunting dog on point. And suddenly there was _ so much_ information in that line, there was a _novel_ in that line. "Boy" was perhaps fifteen; finishing off his master's table scraps was the closest thing he'd ever had in his short life to getting enough to eat; Boy thought his master was _wonderful_; Boy was going to die by his master's side very shortly in some entirely pointless war, and do it with a smile on his face.

From that point on Oliver was, quite simply, fucked.

******************************************************************************

"Do I tell it the same way every time?" he asks.

"More or less," Neil says. "I think last time he said, "Prithee, master."

"It doesn't matter. I'm fairly certain Shakespeare used a random-interjection-generating dartboard. The point is, that it happened _every time_. Give him decent people to work with, and any line at all, or even a bit of silent stage business, and he just...BOOM."

**********************************************************************

It happened every single time. With every single character. Of course after that first time he was table-reading lead parts and not "Boy," but it didn't matter what it was--young lover, old man, clown; the result, the transformation was the same. Once, trying to snap himself out of this lunacy by picturing Geoffrey as a rather terrifying woman, Oliver even had him read Lady MacBeth, and it still didn't matter. When his line came around, there the character--no, the _person_ was, whole and full; backstory and foreshadowing, love and longing and fury and regicide.

Oliver began resorting to excusing himself from readings and rehearsals. He would go to the men's room and bang his head against the stall door, or masturbate. Or sometimes both.

He'd always been careful never to let any of the actors see a moment of indecision or uncertainty from him--wouldn't have been fair to the poor dears, really, they needed a firm hand. But this seemed to be the year for abandoning his rules of conduct, and he was beginning to wonder if this was some sort of insanity on his part, if he was not only _thinking_ with his dick but attempting to exercise artistic judgment with it; and so he cornered Cyril after rehearsal one day. "This new boy," he said. "Tennant. Am I imagining--that he's--"

"Christ, no," Cyril said. "He's a freak of the stage, that lovely boy. We'll all be telling 'I knew him when' stories in our dotage."

So he wasn't losing his mind. Which made him feel not a whit better, but he moved Geoffrey up to the highest possible rung of the newbie character ladder (maids and fairies for the women, servants and fairies for the men.) It physically pained Oliver not to put him in a starring role, but those were set months ago, and one did not do that to the old guard.

Another thing one did not do was socialize with the actors beyond the noblesse oblige of the opening night party (from which one slipped away early in the evening, to allow them the luxury of bitching drunkenly about their director.)

He tried to do that again, when "Midsummer Night's Dream" opened Geoffrey's first season, to play his allotted part and take a bottle home alone. But when he was almost out the door of the bar Geoffrey sprang up from his crowded tableful of youngsters, jumped up and started babbling at Oliver, "best experience of my life, so wonderful, thank you so much," and one of the other drunk newbies was hooting "Suck-up!" at him but--he wasn't sucking up. He was _glowing_ with joy, and he was still in most of his Peas-Blossom costume, green leafy tunic and eyeliner and glitter in his hair, and he was completely sincere and it was all so utterly "What ho, my lord" that it broke Oliver's heart.

"Walk with me a while," he said.

***************************************************************************

"I need more bourbon for this part," Oliver says.

"Hell, _I_ need bourbon for this part," Neil says, and pours some for them both. "You get a bit maudlin for my taste."

***************************************************************************

They walked a while, and talked, and passed Oliver's bottle back and forth, and Geoffrey kept thanking him and just--_bouncing_ with the joy and the high of the stage, talking too fast and gesturing too much and not even seeming to notice that passersby were staring at his costume and makeup.

"The whole night--the whole thing--it's amazing, it's just, it's just so--it's _so_. I don't know what thing it is but it is so, so SO that thing! SO much!"

"Oh my _god_," Oliver groaned, and pulled him into an alley and kissed him.

For one beautiful confused drunken moment Geoffrey kissed him back wholeheartedly, and then stiffened in his arms, pulled back, said "Oh. Uh. Oliver. Mr. Welles. I'm not. I don't. I'm straight."

And the "Mr. Welles" should have done it, should have sent him toddling off home, but he was too far gone, and Oliver said, "How do you _know_? "

And readied himself to be punched, but to his surprise Geoffrey took the question seriously, wrinkled his forehead and bit his lip. Portrait of a beautiful, terribly drunk boy attempting to think. "I've liked girls. Women. When I had them. Which was actually a lot," he said, then added, "Not bragging."

"I'm sure not," Oliver said.

"But the one time with a guy? No. I mean, nothing personal, but blech."

Oliver felt a faint stirring of hope. "Not a fair sampling, is it? Just the one. And was he _skilled_?"

Geoffrey laughed. "I don't know. Probably not." Oliver hadn't ever quite let go of his arms, and they were starting to relax a bit. Not so rigid. "Oh, you know, you've _seen_ him. In the play you came to."

"Not," Oliver said. "Not _that_ boy. Surely." He felt a peculiar combination of raging retroactive jealousy and disappointment in Geoffrey's taste.

Geoffrey had the good grace to blush a bit under his glitter. "Was a long time ago. He was _pushy_. Persnick--, percep--, _persistent._. And, you know. He was always Darren. But back then he wasn't quite as Darren as he was by the time you saw him being Darren."

"Oh, well, that makes sense," Oliver said. "And, dear boy, you deciding that you don't like it based on _one_ incident with _that_\--_thing_\--is entirely unfair. Shows a disturbing lack of good judgment."

Geoffrey looked at him and Oliver had _no_ idea what that look was, it could have been terror or lust or Geoffrey realizing that it was time to throw up and pass out now, but then Geoffrey smiled just a little and said, "I suppose you're right."

*********************************************************************************

"That's the part that kills me, now," Oliver says. "Because later, I realized that what I said, that 'disturbing lack of good judgment.' Sounded like it could have been--a bit of a threat, couldn't it? Coming from his director, someone who was going to be assigning parts. And, the worst thing is. I think I _might_ have realized that when I said it. Possibly."

He looks at Neil, to check the effect of his dramatic revelation. And then realizes that it's probably not all that dramatic, the seventh time around.

"It's a tie, so far," Neil says. "Three times you were an utter bastard who did it on purpose, three times you only realized it later and it wrecked you. Tonight's the tiebreaker."

"I don't know," Oliver says. "I really don't."

*************************************************************************

Oliver took Geoffrey home with him, walked him back to his little house crammed with playbills and posters from every play he'd ever worked on, with stacks of scripts and maquettes in progress. He led Geoffrey to his bed and undressed him, and yes, the beautiful went _everywhere_, the beautiful was _thorough_.

He sucked Geoffrey off, slow, so slow in case he never got to do it again, he was probably never going to get to do it again. Geoffrey moaned and thrashed and came, loudly. Then crawled down the bed and reciprocated, gave Oliver a really spectacularly clumsy blow job. Not enough sucking, and he kept going down too far and choking, and there were occasional alarming accidental scrapes of teeth, and those five minutes of awkwardness and mild terror were perhaps the best five minutes of Oliver's life.

Afterwards Oliver pulled Geoffrey's head up to his shoulder and stroked his hair, and Geoffrey made a comfortable doggish sort of groan and fell asleep, right there. Oliver breathed him in, cigarettes and liquor and nervous stage sweat and makeup and sex sweat and a little smell of Oliver himself, and he fell asleep too.

And then in the morning it was all fucked, of course. Geoffrey wrapped himself in Oliver's blankets and said he was sorry, he was so sorry, he was drunk and shouldn't have done any of this. "I--it was really. It was a lot better than the other time." Gave Oliver that smile, which was most unfair, to flash that lovely smile now. "But I'm--it wasn't--I really do seem to be straight." And then just sat, silent, looking worried about Oliver or possibly, _god_, possibly worried that he'd just wrecked his career.

"Of course," Oliver said. "Alcohol and that opening-night feeling. Makes us all a bit mad, doesn't it? I shouldn't have, either. _Would_ appreciate it if you didn't mention it to anyone. And we've got another performance tonight, so--get yourself home and get hydrated and rested up, all right?"

Geoffrey nodded, smiled again, stood up and dressed while Oliver watched him through his eyelashes. Geoffrey found his shoes under the bed, shoved them on unlaced, then turned to Oliver and held out a hand. Oliver sat naked in his bed with the covers pulled up around his waist and _shook Geoffrey's hand_, and Geoffrey said "Thank you for. Everything." And left.

Oliver walked naked into his bathroom, closed the door and felt a sudden deep need for the coolness of the tiles. He ended up lying on them on his side for a long time, curled up, holding onto his knees.

He had glitter on his dick.

****************************************************************

"You know what the worst part is?"

"The worst part is," Neil says, "he really didn't do anything wrong, so you can't even hate him. You get to be both the victim and the villain of the piece. You're hogging all the good parts." He raises an eyebrow at Oliver. "I'm just summarizing, here."

"You are a vicious, _vicious_ bartender and I am _never_ tipping you again."

"There goes my luxury car."

Neil wipes a few more clean glasses, looks around. Oliver does too, and realizes that they're totally alone now. The place is dead.

"So," Neil says. "Why now?"

"Why what now?"

"This happened a few years ago, right? I've seen you in here for years, you seemed okay. I've seen _him_ in here, you looked to be friends. So. Why are you suddenly in here getting stinking drunk _every_ night and practicing your dramatic monologues?"

"_You_ talk far too much for it to be a monologue."

"Fine. Clear off. I need to lock up."

"Oh, all _right_," Oliver says, because he really doesn't want to go home, dust and playbills and bathroom tiles.

"We _did_ get to be--friends. I was a bit surprised, really, I didn't think I could do it. But I was _important_ to him. So--it was okay. And then I hired Ellen. You've seen Ellen?"

"Oh yeah. Cute. High-strung."

"Ha. Yes. Well. They hit it off rather spectacularly, and I really--I'm quite fond of Ellen, too. But I kept waiting for them to just--self-destruct, they were so--passionate and electric and all those things that work wonderfully onstage but not off. But--it _did_ work offstage. It kept _working_. And I was a third wheel. No. Third wheels are _useful_. Tricycles are useful."

He signals desperately for another drink and Neil rolls his eyes but pours it.

"I was a third _nipple_. Or testicle. A third eye in the middle of the forehead. Something pointless and grotesque." He slams down the drink. "A third _testicle_ in the middle of the forehead."

"Urgh," Neil says. "No more for _you_. And?"

"And last week," Oliver says, "he proposed."

"Ouch."

"In _front_ of me," Oliver says. "Right fucking in front of me."

"Oh."

"It wasn't---cruel. It just didn't--I think he forgot I was there."

Oliver looks at his glass, which remains empty; looks at Neil, who shakes his head.

"So," Oliver says. "What the fuck can I do about it?"

"What do you mean, what do you do about it?" Neil says, and for the first time tonight he looks _angry_. "You don't do anything _about_ it. What you do is, you give a hilarious speech at their wedding rehearsal, and you make a huge fuss over their kids and buy them ridiculous presents, and you get yourself a _boyfriend_, that's what you _do_. And maybe it would be easier on you if you did it somewhere else. Anywhere else but here. Speaking of which. I really do need to lock up."

"Want to find some other place to go?" Oliver says, tries on a smile, and Neil sighs, says "I'm a lot less pretty when you're sober. Also, I'm straight."

"Of course you are," Oliver says. "Get in line. Oliver's army of pretty straight boys, marching along behind me. Following all my orders except. Except the ones I really want them to."

"Hey," Neil says, and he's come around the bar, and he's gripping Oliver's arm gently and walking him out. "Your cab's here."

"You called me a cab?" Oliver says, and he's stumbling a little, and fuck, he's misting up. "You called me a _cab_. That's so _sweet_. I should have tipped you."

Neil sort of folds him, gets him into the back of the cab, gives some money to the driver, sticks his head back in the back window. "Don't _do_ anything, okay?" he says. "I kind of like all you crazy people. Don't fuck anything up. Be _good_, all right?"

He gives a little wave and steps back, and the cab pulls away. Oliver lets his head flop against the seat, tries not to notice that he's feeling a little sick, and whispers, "I don't think I _can_."

 

\--END--

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